


Bringing Down the House

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2053911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The closing act of another case. Written for JWP #30.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bringing Down the House

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: What can I say? Sometimes you just have to go where the prompt takes you. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a huge rush. You have been warned.
> 
> JWP #30: A trip to the theatre. Whether it's an actual stage, a performance, an operating theatre, or some other interpretation, make sure a theatre features in today's entry.

When I think of the theatre, I bring to mind images of brightly-lit, convivial places, full of spectacle. Sometimes shabby, sometimes richly appointed, but always full of people, with much to be seen both on and off the stage.  
  
As it turns out, a theatre after hours is quite a different place. It was a Monday evening, and the theatre was closed, as was traditional. Without the lamps lit, and with the curtains drawn against the few windows, the lobby was a haunted, empty space, full of shadows and silence.  
  
Or almost silence. Holmes’ hand tightened warningly on my arm as a faint rasping sound reached our ears.  
  
“It came from somewhere inside the theatre itself,” Holmes murmured almost soundlessly in my ear. “I believe we might best escape detection if we enter through one of the side aisles.”  
  
He did not wait for my acknowledgement, but strode off silently into the near-darkness, confident that I would follow. I did not hesitate in doing so. I see fairly well in the darkness, but Holmes had eyes like a cat. He would see any obstacles far sooner than I would, and guide us safely past them. I kept close enough to him to sense the fierce energy thrumming through his veins, the tense stalking of a hunter closing in on his prey.  
  
The stage was empty when we crept into the theatre except for a partially-opened dark lantern gleaming in the middle of the stage. The set gleamed richly even in that tiny amount of light, false gilding and glossy paint making the most of every bit of illumination. Holmes cocked his head, listening with every fibre of his being. The lantern-light turned his well-known features into a demonic mask as he silently snarled and shook his head. Apparently he heard no more than I did.  
  
With little more than a few gestures, Holmes made it clear that I was to wait four minutes, then ascend to the stage, staying out of sight as much as possible while searching for our criminal. He melted into the shadows, and I knew he meant to do the same from the other side. Hopefully we could catch the culprit between us.  
  
A scant handful of minutes have rarely passed so slowly. I counted out the seconds, feeling each one tick through the case of my pocket-watch. I felt as if countless eyes were fixed upon me, waiting for me to move. It took an effort to shake off the fancy and stay alert. In all that time, I saw and heard nothing of Holmes, but I did not really expect to. When the allotted time had passed, I took a deep breath, then made my way to the stage stairs as quickly and quietly as I could. Once on stage, I ducked to the side, searching for any sign of another person.  
  
Nothing.  
  
I kept one hand firmly on my walking-stick as I began my search along the right side of the stage. The backstage space – or side-stage space, I supposed – was crowded with ropes and painted scrims and other, less easily-defined objects, and offered a nearly infinite number of hiding-spaces. That could work both for and against me; I could hide easily as I made my way towards the rear, but I also stood next to no chance of seeing anyone else amongst all the clutter. Still, as long as I kept my eyes open, I –  
  
A whisper of sound behind me, from the lighted stage, was my only warning, and it nearly came too late. I turned partially into the blow as I was struck from behind, but the weight of my attacker and the force of the blow still drove me into the wall. Pain wracked my bad shoulder as it took the brunt of the collision. My head spun even as I struggled to free myself, turn and face my foe.  
  
Another shove, and then abruptly the weight vanished. I staggered, turning, and saw a dark shape leap away from me and towards the edge of the stage and the darkness of the house beyond. Out of one corner of my eye I saw Holmes spring from the shadows at the far side of the stage and sprint after the man, but too far away to have a hope of catching him.  
  
But I also saw something else entirely close at hand. A pained grunt escaped me as I yanked free the sword hidden inside my walking-stick and slashed it with all my might at the ropes tied off against the wall. The effort sent me crashing to the ground, but not before I severed several of the ropes. A great swathe of fabric plummeted crazily downwards and onto the running man, bringing him low. Holmes was upon him before he could free himself from the heavy folds, and made short work of securing his swearing, struggling prisoner.  
  
He looked towards me, grinning triumphantly. The expression fell away from his face as swiftly as the curtain had come down when he saw me on the ground. A sharp oath, and then he was hurrying towards me, only pausing to scoop up the dark lantern in one hand and bring it along.  
  
“Watson!” He crouched beside me, dark eyes taking in everything, as they always did. “Are you much hurt, Mother Hen?” The words were light, but there was nothing casual about his examination, or the light touches from his long-fingered hands.  
  
I gathered myself and replied with as close an approximation of his tone as I could manage. “More shaken than anything, Old Cock. No need for worry.”  
  
“Hm. I’m not convinced your shoulder would entirely agree with your diagnosis, Doctor.” Holmes helped me to my feet, then stooped and retrieved the pieces of my sword-cane. “Still,” he went on, returning the steel to its hiding-place and twisting the pieces back together, “now that we’ve wrapped up the case, we might indulge in a trip to the Turkish Bath. What say you to such a prescription?”  
  
“But what of the jewels?”  
  
“What, these?” Holmes dipped one hand into his coat pocket and pulled out two sparkling earrings before gesturing towards the stage. “The rest are concealed among the set, as these were, along with all the paste gems and trumpery. It shouldn’t take but a few minutes to detect them once we bring some proper light to the subject. Then we shall bring our man and the jewels to our friend Lestrade at the Yard, and be on our way.”  
  
He made it sound so simple, but then again, to Holmes, it probably was. Culprit caught, case closed, curtain down and on to the next thing. And if the rest of us were left gaping in his wake, all the better. All part of the show.  
  
I shook my head, but could not hide the smile tugging at my lips. “Lead on, my dear fellow. I believe I hear the Turkish bath calling our names.”


End file.
